The Mark of Merlin
- Автор: Маккефри Энн
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Mark of Merlin». Краткое содержание книги:
“Good,” DeLord was saying, accepting my implied warning.
“By any chance,” I replied, twisting my dig a little, “would you be interested in buying them?”
“Me? No, ma’am,” he answered with honest surprise. “Not on a lieutenant’s pay.”
Turtle came in. He looked sardonically at the lieutenant’s labor but said nothing, passing through to the back porch. I heard him rumbling on to the major. The conversation with DeLord had been punctuated with the cracks of an ax against wood and the thud as logs were piled against the side of the back perch. As I heard the clumping of several pairs of feet approaching, I switched to more general conversation. I could see that it rubbed my guardian exactly the wrong way to find me and Robert DeLord in congenial good spirits. I paid Major Regan Laird no attention whatsoever as he stood peeling off layers of clothing.
“Sun’s over the yardarm, Turtle,” I announced when the sergeant came in.
I ignored Turtle’s startled look at the use of his nick name. He shot a menacing glance at the lieutenant who did not so much as flutter a muscle. The sobriquet might never be used by anyone but me but I’ll bet anything the whole regiment knew it.
“Gotta wash,” the sergeant mumbled. He and the major disappeared.
I listened for the major’s explosion when he entered the bathroom. His profanity, muffled but unmistakable, startled the lieutenant. I gave him no explanation and continued blithely to set the table as I pumped him.
“You never saw Camp
Fort Dix
I’ll never get that straight,” I groaned, “before its new exalted position, did you?”
“No, Miss Carla.”
“Just Holabird and Benning?”
“That’s right.”
“But Holabird was provost marshal school, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, I reckon so, but they took in other units just before Pearl, about the time I got there.”
“I see.” And I was beginning to. And I wondered if I liked that conclusion. If Major Laird and Turtle had also had their doubts about DeLord, maybe they had a good reason, apart from the one they gave, for distrusting him. But Dad hadn’t and, as regimental C.O. he would have known that DeLord was provost marshal. But why should a secret P.M. be attached to the regiment? Warren had pulled an awfully costly blunder at Bois de Collette in the Cotentin Peninsula that had decimated two companies, but to warrant a P.M.? No. There had been some extenuating circumstances. If Dad had only got rid of Warren the man had been an albatross forever. He had a way of giving orders that positively antagonized officer and enlisted man alike. He was the greatest refugee from the Civil War since Custer and he never had been able to understand the necessity for changing tactics that had been successful in Napoleon’s day. For instance, the need for tank support of infantry (Warren, Dad had told me, considered tanks a Buck Rogers’ lunacy) and the necessity of sustaining an artillery barrage until visible casualties among your own men - these new tricks of warfare Warren simply could not accept. But Dad had gone to the Point with Warren and Dad had his own Scotch ideas of loyalty. Well, they had cost him his life. Did DeLord suspect that? That would have brought down a provost marshal. But DeLord had been with the regiment long before that. Why?
Nor could I see any connection between provost marshal and a perfectly respectable stamp hobby. Not unless Dad had taken blocks of stamps from the French postal service and they were raising a Gallic fuss. But Dad was discriminating and large blocks didn’t interest him. And, anyway, Dad had been in Paris before DeLord joined the outfit, not after. So it wasn’t stamps exactly .
I heard the major’s heavy step in the corridor. There was no mistaking the suppressed anger in that determined thump. I wondered if he wanted to take me over the coals for doing the laundry, or for festooning it in the bathroom. At any rate, he was livid, or the scar was a very reliable pressure gauge. And I just didn’t care.
It did seem a little ungrateful of him when you considered the efforts I had saved his majorial dignity. I couldn’t picture him bending over a steamy washboard. And there is nothing like combat boots to foul up socks for fair. But oh, he was mad.
Fortunately, DeLord’s presence was inhibiting and, though the major’s eyes blazed with fury, he said nothing. He stalked over to the cabinet and got out three glasses. I was about to remind him there were four of us when he swung his body around, shot a frown at DeLord, and took down one more.
“Soda?” he barked at the lieutenant.
“Neat!”
This, too, annoyed the major. He put the glasses on the table with a thud which roused Merlin. He had been snoozing under the table but sat upright with a throaty growl, aware of the undercurrent in the room.
Major Laird, until that moment unaware of Merlin’s presence, sprang backwards, hunching, his hand automatically seeking a nonexistent gunbutt at his hip, all his combat reflexes alerted by the unexpected noise. For one split second I wondered if he would be foolhardy enough to lash out at Merlin. Even as that outrageous thought crossed my mind, I realized how unworthy it was. Mad at me the major might be, but he was not the sort of person who slapped down the next guy in line for someone else’s fault.
“Easy, fella,” he said although the admonition went to the wrong person. Merlin sneezed and lay back down.
I wondered if the major realized he looked a trifle foolish, at least to me he did, overreacting to a dog’s growl. I glanced at the lieutenant out of the corner of my eye. I amended my thought and decided I was foolish. The lieutenant approved the major’s quickness. It was analogous to Turtle’s reflex attack on me yesterday. I was the one at fault, I chided myself, being very childish, selfish and thoughtless. These men had been in combat. Their nerves were still wire-tight and battle-honed. I had no right to play on their emotions and set up situations that increased their tensions.
“Oh,” I exclaimed, as if suddenly remembering, “I’m sorry about the bathroom, Major. I left stuff all over. I hope you didn’t mind my taking over like that. Force of habit. I always did it for Dad.”
“Thank you,” the major said stiffly, his head barely inclining in my direction. “It was kindly meant, I’m sure, but unnecessary.”
“Dry yet?”
He shook his head and continued fixing the drinks. Turtle barged into the kitchen.
“Freezing upstairs,” he croaked, warming his hands over the stove.
The major handed drinks around. The lieutenant hopped up nimbly for a man who affected a languorous attitude most of the time.
“The colonel, God bless him,” grated out Turtle, raising his glass. It still had the quality of a prayer, not a toast. Was Turtle getting religion?
My inner question helped me over the moment. No tears and only a slight constriction in my throat, so it surprised me to see a grimness to the lieutenant’s mouth. It passed so quickly I may have been reading more than was there.
Turtle reversed a chair as he usually did, and, seeing Merlin sprawled under the table, arranged his feet carefully.
“Wore him out, we did,” the sergeant laughed, taking a long swig. “Good stuff. By God, good stuff.”
“I didn’t realize that shepherds had retriever instincts,” was the major’s comment, relaxing for the first time since the lieutenant’s arrival.
“Oh, Merlin is full of surprises. Did you think to make a sled dog out of him on the way back? He’s strong enough to pull quite a heavy load.”